@[I LEARNED HOW TO TAG] fb, you're making me a shallow person.

i just learned how to tag in facebook. it shouldn't have taken me almost a year to figure out how to do it. figuring out that typing @[someone's name here] was the same as people saying "at [someone's name here] is more complicated than it seems. what i really want to do is upload all the hot pictures of myself and then tag nick in them. not because i want to make him jealous, but to show him what profile pictures should look like. profile pictures should not be the worst picture you've ever taken. or even close to the worst picture you've ever taken. yea, i may be incredibly shallow, but i don't want to be reminded that i dated someone so absolutely disgusting. probably the shallowest thing i've ever said on this blog... should i get upset at myself? probably. but whatever. i don't want to be reminded that i settled for that every time i scroll through my news feed. maybe it's not just aesthetics. maybe it's just him. i can do better. but will i? @[dramatic music].

indecision. she was drunk. she was gone. she wasn't all there. she was just there enough to be able to speak to you in broken sentences of strung together english words. she wants you to understand everything she has to say, but she doesn't want you to take her seriously. she certainly doesn't want you to remember what she's said the next day. she wants you to remember her face and think of it fondly. but she doesn't want you to remember that she belongs with the face until some made up day when you will meet in sobriety but in a strange setting where strangers don't feel like strangers and socialization is maximized for everyone's benefit.

you there. yea. you.

she was rocking back and forth across her feet. no no no. she was tapping her toes. but only on her right foot. she was a little intoxicated but she was fully aware of where she was, in that she was at a bar and there was nothing doing. yea, the jukebox had recently picked up again and a minority of people had started swaying back and forth, cradling plastic cups full of mixed hard liquor, and yea, a lot of those people she recognized and could be described as acquaintances, but yea, there was nothing doing. she didn't know why most people walked into bars. she was here because she wanted to encourage small business and she was also an alcoholic. it made sense. why everyone else around her was there, she couldn't guess. get laid? get drunk? maybe the reverse. but still, what horrible goals to have for actually investing time and money to get all the way to this particular spot. it's not like it was amazing. it was regular. it had it's regular crowd. it had it's regular dart board. it's regular thirty-six inch television. the whole place was in no way special. this upset her, because unlike everyone else who had also chosen this bar as a site for continued debauchery and poor drink choices, she recognized the importance of making every day and every night count. she had at least one chronic disease (hint hint, it's asthma) and she wasn't going to live forever. she wanted this night to mean something to her years from now. but this was a pointless dream, and she recognized within a few moments of insobriety that she was a romantic, a dreamer, and that this would end up being a night like any other. she had arrived with her two friends--Amy and Clark. They sucked, really. They lived up to stereotypes and it killed her. Amy was a short white girl whose voice always upped a couple octaves when she talked to cute boys or phone operators. Clark, who was unfortunately named gender ambiguously, flirted with lesbians and had recently cut her hair short. She liked leather jackets and tried her very hardest not to look "girly."

She rolled her eyes at the thought. Her left hand was sinking into her face as her right hand rested on her knee and held up a glass of a mixed drink, perpendicular to the axis of her gravitational force. More importantly, she was in a corner. All the lights were shining on the bar, on the pool tables, along the windows. But there was no light shining over her, and she felt very much like a leopard or a lion or a panther--anything that sits and waits patiently for its prey, so that it can begin it's stalk. She knew very much what she wanted, but it wasn't likely to happen. She wanted to stalk the possibility though. She played around with the idea of texting in her head. But she couldn't think of a time when she had been pleased with a text sent from her phone while she was intoxicated. Still, she felt like she had a good enough reason to. Usually it was embarrassment or uncertainty that made her text. Today, she wasn't embarrassed and she was absolutely sure what she wanted to do. This wasn't embarrassing--this was amazing, inspiring. The most shocking thing that had ever happened to her. Her inspiration rate increased slightly, and she arched her back so that she sat a little higher in her plastic framed chair. She finished the Blue Moon she had let mellow in her glass, and placed it underneath her, then resumed her stalking position.

No, she wasn't embarrassed at all, though she could understand why she should be. She had a lot of other things in her life to worry about, to be hurt by, to be embarrassed about. But this guy, this one guy, he sucked. He was a failure. She wanted to believe she was empathetic. But that only happened sometimes. Most of the time she ended up in the corner of bars watching everyone with disgust. Even the people she endured for the majority of her life--she hated them. Not always, and not for very long. But she went through sustained periods of disgust with people she respected. She wasn't empathetic. She never would be. But this guy, she didn't know why she cared about him at all. She didn't pity him, but she didn't respect him either. Perhaps it was a weird amalgamation of helplessness and indifference that inspired her. Probably not. But then again... She didn't care much for over analysis. She had been down that road every single day of high school. And of college. Over analysis led nowhere and was fucking obnoxious. She had hoped that drinking another drink would kill the part of her brain, likely her frontal lobe, that produced the desire to analyze such things. But it looked as though she had failed again. She could, however, order something else--something much stronger. She could bring her lips to brimming shot glasses four or five more times to produce an effect strong enough to stop her from thinking. But that would be expensive. She could go home and drink from her own stash. Ah yes, the alcoholic's dilemma.

Or maybe she could analyze with him. Or just analyze him. The beer was making it's way into her bloodstream. She felt calmer, calm enough to lean back in her chair and stare at the ceiling, constructing herself into a pose that was both unflattering and painful--which she would know if she was sober. That's what she would end up doing, after all. Tomorrow morning, she already knew, she would wake up with an odd pain in her back, which she would associate with sleeping funny, and then spend five to ten minutes after her alarm's intrusion on her rest, thinking about him. Not anything particular. There were many things about him that she found amusing. She could think of any one of them. And perhaps one characteristic would lead her to an ever larger discussion with herself. Maybe she'd realize what a fool she had been for thinking that having an active social life would make her happy. It wouldn't. She could, and probably would, find many men in bars that would be both attractive and interesting to talk to. But they weren't people she could imagine herself spending nonsensical amounts of time thinking about. They didn't have the same qualities. They weren't nearly as bizarre.

It was then that she pulled out her phone and started preparing herself--emotionally--for a text. She tapped at some keys, scrolled over to the text box, found his name, and then sat staring at the screen. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't know. She would regret it. She would regret it like almost everything else she did. She wanted him, yes, but that would sound too wishy-washy. She needed him, but that was too frightening, and it couldn't be true, could it? She didn't give a fuck. And she wouldn't give a fuck two years from now. But she certainly cared quite a lot about it right now. But she was drunk. She put her phone away. What would she do? What could she say? Too much thinking was required of her, and it seemed a lot like over analysis. In an hour she'd be tucked underneath her sheets. She would be alone. But she would be asleep. She could be aloof as well, you know. She could be pitiable. She could be many things, just by herself. What did she want? What did she really want? She didn't want to fuck around with someone. She wanted to be asleep. She wanted to sleep longer than eight hours but much shorter than forever. Where the timer would end up, she didn't know. But she did know that she didn't have to stay awake any more. She wanted to spit in the face of every single guy she passed on her way out. You're not him, she wanted to say, but she realized that would sound horrific. Everybody's someone to somebody else. But she wasn't anyone to anyone, and so she would be anxious, heart beating until she could rest herself with eight odd hours of sleep.

She had a song stuck in her head as she walked home. It was a KOL, Kings of Leon song. It was pretty old. She had sung it to herself without really thinking about the lyrics when she was fourteen. Now it meant a whole lot more to her.

"I want you, exactly like I used to
and baby this is only bringing me down."


Fuck.

February

Someone scratched a heart into the frost on my car window. I like February because it feels like I'm constantly in love. There is no other reason to love February--except maybe the fact that the sun shines past 5 in the afternoon.

2:30 AM at 65 Hamilton

I woke up about thirty minutes ago. It's relatively freezing in my room. Goddamn heat and goddamn heating bill. Why do I have to pay almost $200/2 mos. to keep our house at around 62 degrees? Because our landlord probably cares less about energy efficiency than being in "Hollaywood movies*." And yes--pronounce it like that because I don't give a fuck. It's freezing. And my blood sugar was 42. And I was alone. And why the hell did anything even wake me up? I would have been fine dying tonight. Colgate tied Cornell 1-1 at a hockey game. Highlight, I'm sure, of my life. And I'm also sick. From who, I don't know. I wish if I spent most of my time alone that could ensure that I would no longer get sick. But apparently I find enough time to slink around contagions. Goddamn. So now I'm eating refuse pizza like a past midnight carrion predator and drinking flat soda composed of natural sugar instead of that fake fructose shit which, yea, I can taste and yea, it's not as delicious. Who makes food out of things that aren't sugar? Why? Why does anyone do anything anymore? And why is everything so fucked up? I like my life. It's amusing. But there are some things I really wish I didn't have to interact with anymore. Cold viruses would be one of them. Damn black-and-white hockey referees would be another. The wise beyond it's rhyming scheme "I'm blind, I'm deaf, I wanna be a ref" chant was an apt descriptor of tonight's game--which I got drunk at. Yes, I drink a lot and yes, I'm okay with that. But I'm not okay with waking up in the middle of the night almost dying just because I spiked a twenty ounce bottle of corn syrupy coke with Tanqueray and because I didn't eat one full meal today. You can't escape corn syrup. And I can't escape Tanqueray. But I love it, I don't want to escape it. Snow drifts that pile up in your drive way so that taking cars anywhere becomes impossible. Two wheel drive. These are a noun and an adjective which I would happily avoid, but I can't. I just want to be able to drink socially, but when the wind chill is below 0, and I mean Fahrenheit, not that bitch ass Celsius crap the natural science department here at Colgate University has all but crumbled to, it's hard to find the means and the courage to walk downtown to one of four bars. My diabetes probably would have flared up about a block from my house**, and I would have been found, early Saturday morning, snow falling on my delicate features, which I don't currently possess, but I'm sure will find a way into my personal description at a funeral. People seem to like me. Not enough to be around me constantly so that I don't have to scavenge for food in the middle of the night, but enough to attend a funeral and say nice things about me. Yes. Basically my argument is I need someone to follow me around with sugar constantly, and not corn syrup, though that would technically save my life. So yes, this entire paragraph has been an argument for the implementation of a boyfriend, girlfriend, or indentured servant to constantly present me with candy. But I'm fairly positive that would only increase the frequency of my introduction to winter colds and I fucking hate being sick. I hate being sick more than I hate having to get food for myself so all in all, I guess I'll just stack natural cane sugar sodas next to my bed and forgo the whole indentured servant idea, maybe to be thought of again in five or more years when I want to get married. People suck. They carry disease and they do a bad job of officiating collegiate sporting events. They also can't be trusted to always provide sugar for you or make sure the house you're renting from them is energy efficient. But I suppose the alternative, that I am the only human being left alive on planet earth after a catastrophic apocalyptic*** type event renders everyone else dead and or zombified would not be nearly as fun as complaining about being lonely at 2:30 in the morning on a Friday night/Saturday morning. And then, heaven forbid, I would want a soda, because I'm not entirely sure I could handle making a carbonated beverage. And then, heaven forbid, I would want a Tanqueray, because getting that recipe right and building an actual distillery would probably be more difficult than avoiding getting munched on by my zombie neighbors... But at least I wouldn't get sick.

*He is a J-list movay stah.
**That is not how diabetes works and I'm sorry if I've confused you.
***Redundant?

so today was a weird day. it was raining, even though it's been blizzarding for the past week. i sat down in my family room to do work, but eight hours later I stood up and realized I hadn't done a damn thing. I was so busy I didn't make it to the pharmacy last week, so I haven't been taking my long term insulin or my antidepressants... because I literally don't have any. I endured watching a Bears game and they got crushed by the patriots. But I was still content to watch football. Then I decided to watch Moon, which is a really great science-fiction movie. But I don't think I should have watched it in the mood I'm in. I definitely should not have watched the family guy holiday special. That was some fucked up shit--and did nothing to make me feel better. Weird fucking mood I'm in. My mind very easily gets derailed into fucking weird land. Which is why I started blogging, actually. Listening to Asteroid Field from the Empire Strikes Back and looking through Facebook, I suddenly got this painful feeling of deja vu and then I needed to mix things up. This really is a piss poor blog entry, but you can fuck off? NO!!!! JUST KIDDING! clap your hands say yeah

good stuff

Kill Me

It's racism. That's what I wanted to write about. Okay, so there's a lot of really annoying little things in my life. And what's perhaps most infuriating is that they're all fucking social issues. WHICH IS SO FUCKING FUCKED UP. I'm pretty sure the answer to most of my problems will be something like this:

I am a robot with mild asperger's syndrome.

SURPRISE! Anyway, social issues suck. Especially when they're racism. And especially when you're black. I don't like to think of myself as uppity. I am definitely sensitive. But I'm not as uppity about my race as homophobes are about their sexuality. SO WIN FOR ME. Or is that a stereotype? Who knows. All I know is it's great to watch people defend their heterosexuality for NO. APPARENT. REASON. Ridiculous. I couldn't care less if you were even a person. And I'm serious. For all I know, I'm the only person who actually exists. Or maybe I'm only the only robot. Okay, wait a second, this is clearly a rant. But it feels good to rant when you've been throwing yourself against the walls of your consciousness with theories of insidious racism that insure that you will always fail. And I mean always. Does it not matter that I am smart? Will I always question that just because I'm not white? Am I different because I'm not white? Hell, black or white, I'm still a robot. But that bothers me. Not that I'm a robot. I'm probably not a robot. But are there differences between me and white people that are so inconspicuous, yet divisive, that I will constantly fail?

Okay, well what if I could just forget that I was black? Then I'd just look at things not as ever continuing trends (like, for example, why short, meek, and stout white girls are somehow a hot commodity, and I am literally a 9 who is 5'10'' and only 160 pounds but am somehow always single?) and consider painful incidences just as what they probably actually are: fate. Random happenings that just happen and it's unfortunate that that's what's up, but sometimes life just sucks. And it should feel like life just sucks and not that there's some more evil social reasons behind this. I mean, it's not like everything bad in my life is caused by racism (like why that fucking white idiot in my physics class clearly is about as "bright" as a burnt bulb, and as daft as science majors at Colgate should be allowed to be, but yet manages to get awarded Colgate's top academic prize?), right?

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this system is fucked up. I don't know. I've been reading two papers about female physicians. And it's making me think about being black. I think it's harder to be black right now than to be a woman, if only because, as a woman, you share something in common with the majority of people living on the planet. Being black makes me similar in some way to only 10% of the world's population. But anyway, the first paper I read was very encouraging. Stereotypes and  biases cannot exist! Especially not in medicine! "The different needs of women for support groups reflect the persistent gap between reason and reality, for lingering tails of tradition prevent the attainment of true liberation for all."

I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO FEEL LIKE THERE ARE THINGS BEYOND MY CONTROL HOLDING ME BACK. I'm not a perfect human being. I wake up every day hoping I don't make anymore of the same mistakes that literally haunt me but I don't always know if I'll be able to avoid them. But I don't cry about these things. I feel god awful about them. I don't want to keep being a sucky human being. But I know I'll get better. I'm getting older and I'm definitely learning, albeit slowly.

What makes me cry is thinking that there won't be any change whatsoever. That I can apply myself and still fail. And that this cycle will happen again and again. That's what makes me cry until I can't speak the next day. And the sad thing is, that last sentence is true.

No, but what is really sad is, I know racism isn't that bad. I know it's not. But why, then, is it always the logical answer for situations I can't explain?

I want to write. I've been writing so much lately, but it hasn't been fun. Papers and such and more nonsense. Couldn't I just be graded on a conversation? I would gladly discuss the issues I've been studying over this entire semester. But no, I have to wrap everything up in this over-formalized format. Quite annoying. But I'm a good writer. That's not what's bothering me.

But something clearly is. Otherwise I wouldn't be writing. There is no need for me to be blogging. I should be writing. But I'm not. I'm blogging. And who the hell knows why.

Rhetorical Analysis of Lilly Pulitzer

Also, what the fuck? I think you're falling prey to Lilly Pulitzer ridiculous rhetoric. They can't fucking be honest about anything. They over sell all their products verbally, even the ones that really do suck. EXAMPLE:

> "We don't do "solids" often but when we do, we suuuure exceed expectations. Oh, and we say that in the most humble way (wink, wink). Seriously, this is the most perfect cozy sweater dress with everything you'd expect from Lilly minus our print!"

Sounds like that dress would be fucking amazing. The way I expect it to look is: hugging the models curves, offered in white and a brownish-grey... a hazel maybe... made of a nice cashmere blend and turtle neckish.

But seriously? What is that? It's gross. That's what it is. The only accurate guess I had was turtleneck--and it's not even really a turtleneck. They bastardized it in the picture of the blue one with an actual turtleneck, creating some some incredibly weird, double layered thing that I don't think should count as a turtleneck. They should be modest about that, and none of that wink wink crap either. That's seriously one of the worst sweater dresses I've seen on the market.

The worst part is, they're trying to make you, a gullible shopper, spend $178 on this piece of crap. It's made of cotton and wool. There's no cashmere in that. They try to convince you that it's amazing, "we suuuure exceed expectations," but the truth is, they didn't and if you are convinced that this dress is worth buying, then you shouldn't be allowed a disposable income. I bet OLD NAVY has better sweater dresses than this fiasco. I'll be back in three minutes...

Fine, Old Navy didn't offer anything stunning, but here's a GAP dress you'd actually have a fighting chance of looking sexy in for $78. Saving you literally, $100, and you're super hot sexiness.

Seriously though, what the fuck? That's a sweater dress and it's super sexy and utilitarian. Best of all, it comes in appropriate winter colors such as black and dark purple, possibly a plum.

Best of all, GAP doesn't brag that it's created something; they don't trip over words to tell you that they've just created the "most perfect cozy sweater dress". They give you the straight facts: 51% Nylon, 41% Viscose Rayon, 8% Angora--Hand Wash--Imported. And it's also incredibly helpful in telling you how to best maximize your attractiveness in this rather costly (but still just $78) number:

"Incredibly versatile, our fine-gauge knit sweater dress looks best with tights and boots."

So straight and to the point. My GOD! Could shopping really be this easy?

And one last point I'd like to make:

Look back at the Lilly Pulitzer commentary for that dress.

Do you see it?

That horrific error?

It's a fucking exclamation point.

Don't buy things, or even converse with people, who use exclamation points regularly and without sarcasm in written communication. They're usually either batshit insane or completely fake, unrealistic, and out of touch with you, an actual person who is just trying to look good for as cheap as possible.

Right? You're an actual person who is just trying to look good for as cheap as possible.

I think that's an accurate statement to your identity. DON'T BUY CLOTHING FROM CRAZY PEOPLE.

ARE YOU TRYING TO LOOK SEXY OR ATTRACTIVE AT ALL?

NaNOwriMO?

It's November, so that means I'm doing it to myself again.

I'm writing. And I won't stop writing until I've hit 50,000 words or my words become completely unintelligible. Luckily, I'm doing most of my writing on a Microsoft word processor, so I'll know when the latter occurs. A sea of red will start over taking all my words, and I won't be able to right click quick enough...

HORROR OF HORRORS!

How much have I written so far? NOT NEARLY ENOUGH.

I don't know why I'm even telling you people this. I should have thought of a way to write this into my story... *IDEA!*

Gotta go!

KOL

There's something about Kings of Leon that makes you feel okay about feeling sad...

I'm going to stay in this mood until I pass out from the Unisom.

Or I'm going to jump ship when I change to another artist. (whazzzup trey songz?)

I don't like listening to sad music because there's so much uncertainty in emotions other than pure joy.

I'm going to go to sleep now.

Unisom is stronger than Benadryl.

I don't have a facebook anymore.

I'm tired.

love love love love love love love love love, love love love love, love love, love...

radioactive is a good song. a really good song. elora doesn't like the feelings she's feeling right now. but she respects and appreciates them...

Logical Lover

The other day I was probably doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing at that specific point in time. Unfortunately, I can't remember when this moment may have occured, and I can't be entirely sure that such a thing ever happened ever. I lose myself a lot. It's kind of like blacking out. Except you know you're conscious the entire time. But you're just not... there. I always imagined that this would happen for a brief couple of years after college when I just bummed around doing various sorts of low grade drugs. But it's happening right now and I don't know what to do! Where am I? What am I doing? Is this early-early-early-early-onset Alzheimer's? Is it senioritis? Is it seasonal affectiveness disorder? Is it the diabetes? The drugs? The depression? The lack of love? The lack of music? The lack of motivation? I don't know. I really can't tell. I want to be here right now. But I can't because everything just keeps on happening. Time keeps on slipping, and it's creepy as fuck. I don't know what I can do to remedy this. The harder I think about it, the more I get lost. So I guess I can only really ask you to help me do one thing, if you wouldn't mind too terribly much? Could you just... you know...

think about it?